


Lonely is the Room

by Skitz_phenom



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Episode: s15e18 Coda, Gen, M/M, Spoilers for Episode: s15e18 Despair
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-12
Updated: 2020-11-12
Packaged: 2021-03-09 21:42:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,493
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27533191
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Skitz_phenom/pseuds/Skitz_phenom
Summary: Delving into Dean's thoughts about this final, actual, goodbye.
Relationships: Castiel/Dean Winchester
Comments: 3
Kudos: 36





	Lonely is the Room

**Author's Note:**

> Another in the plethora of Post 15.18 fics...albeit, a bit belated. (Just under the wire before 15.19) Un-beta'd - so any mistakes are all mine.

“I love you.”

The words hit him like a fist; like a bullet. And, the pain that follows is ten times as sharp as either.

He wants Cas to take it back. He doesn’t want to face what it means.

“Why does this feel like goodbye?”

Cas’ eyes are wet and shining and when he says, “Because it is.”

Dean wants to scream.

It catches in his throat, clogs it, and what comes out is just a rough, gravelly whisper. “Cas…”

“Goodbye, Dean.”

They’ve said goodbye before, and he tries to remember that, to focus on that, but _this_ is different. This time, the things that have always carefully gone unsaid have been spoken, and what that means is that this time: this time it’s for _real_.

No take backs, no miracles, no acts of spontaneous resurrection brought about by over-emotional, over-powered beings.

Dean realizes then that it’s not the words themselves, it’s the fact that Cas gave them voice. He’s known, _known_ , all along … for years, probably. Deep down he’s always known. But he’s never bucked the status quo and never dragged all those dark, little boxed-away secrets and feelings into the light because if there’s one thing Dean has learned it’s that he doesn’t get ‘happy’; he doesn’t get good things. He doesn’t get to keep the things that he…

So, he can’t say it and he hates, hates Cas for a minute for speaking it aloud, for no longer sublimating it into banter and battle or bitter recriminations, which have always been just that little bit sharper, just that little bit meaner, because of what they’ve both kept to themselves. And, really, Cas didn’t need to say it. It’s shining in his eyes, and it’s always been there hidden behind that miraculous blue.

Dean just tried not to look for it, tried not to see it. There’s no mistaking it though. Not _now_.

But he doesn’t want to see it or hear it now, either. Not this time.

They’d gotten by for _years_ playing the avoidance game and that’s suited Dean well enough. And it hurts, like nothing he’s ever really known. It’s not the same hurt as losing his mom, or the same hurt as losing Sam, or even the same hurt and ache he feels towards himself when he fails at anything. Fails to save someone or set things right. It’s somehow _worse_.

And that makes him feel like he’s betraying memories of people he’s loved, people who’d had a place in his heart long before a reaching out hand seared itself onto his soul.

Damn Cas for saying it.

And he’s so angry, and bitter and horrified, that he can’t even say anything - before _everything_ changes. Cas shoves him, and the Empty is there, and then Billy is gone, and the Empty is gone and… Cas is gone.

Cas is _gone_.

He stares at the wall, that mundane stack of empty brick, denial and rage clawing at his insides. And he knows why he’s so broken, why this time goodbye feels so real.

Because, _every_ other time he’s been able to hold on to the smallest fragment of a kernel of promise, of potential. A dry, minuscule, desiccated seed that would take miraculous cultivation to even begin to sprout into hope. But now, the depths of him lie fallow, and nothing, _nothing_ , can grow there anymore.

Because Cas said it.

He said it because he knew he’d never have to see Dean again. Never have to risk whatever Dean might give back to him. A fist, a laugh… a kiss.

Coward, he thinks. And he’s not sure if he’s referring to himself, or Cas.

Sam’s calling, and he knows he should answer. He knows that unlike every other time the world has gone to hell, that this time is so much more. But he can’t bring himself to slide a finger across the surface to answer, or to swipe the call away.

He’s flayed, raw, hurting like he did when he was in hell; before he felt that hand grip his shoulder.

He curses Cas again, and again.

Coming into his life and going out the same way. Never giving him a choice either way.

Dean knows he’d be lying if he said that he’d have done it any different. As much as he wants to tell himself that if he were a little bit more prepared, or had an inkling that this time, this time Cas would unearth that purposefully buried, deepest of truths and bring it into the light, he’d do it different. Answer him, at least. Thank him? Tell him what?

He really isn’t ready to face it himself. He’s avoided it from… well, probably from the beginning. Because somewhere in those first moment of Cas’s grace taking him up, rescuing him from the depths of the fiery abyss, it touched his soul and left an indelible mark. He’s done his best to bury it away ever since.

He wants to beg and to plead and to pray to the universe, to fix this, dammit! To make it right. But he knows that’s just Chuck, and he’s an asshole and he’s probably laughing about this right now - about how well it fits into his glorious narrative. Dean wants to plead to something else, _anything_ else, that could exist that might be able to fix this, to right this most grievous of wrongs.

He wants to lie and say that it’s not fair that he didn’t get a chance to say it back. And it would be a lie. Yet, at the same time, it’s also a truth.

The cold cement of the bunker wall seeps through Dean’s jacket and flannel and his face and his throat and his eyes burn from the rough, quiet sobs that he tried like hell to contain. Until they forced their way out, each one - each gasp and each tear – hurt, scalded.

Pain, at least, is something he can feel. He’s numb to everything else.

Whatever the world has left to throw at them; Chuck, Death, the Empty… it doesn’t matter now. If he can lose Cas… really lose him this time, then the only other things he has left that he loves; there’s no keeping them safe.

He pushes the heels of his hands into his eyes, smearing wetness around more than wiping it away. He moves to rub the scratchy forearm of his jacket across his face, to maybe do a little better at sopping the damp. He spots the red, then… the blood. Sees the shape of it and is reminded once again.

He decides then: here in the empty, lonely storage room in the only place he’s been able to call home in too long, Dean allows himself to say it.

It’ll never cross his lips again. And, there’s no one to bear witness (not the one person who should), but it needs to be said.

Before he shunts this all away again, packs it away with all the other baggage he’s been lugging in heart and mind and somewhere just left of his soul, adding just one more impossible weight to that already incalculable burden. Where he keeps those tiny, precious fragments of himself separate, special… never to see the light of day and never to be looked at again.

He places his hand over the bloody handprint, fingers lining up, feeling the material already stiffened, and flaking. Still, he presses there, what would be palm-to-palm. And in this lonely darkness, he lets himself have this one moment, this one thing.

“Love you too, Cas. I love you, man. I’m sorry.”

And then, because it feels like instead of the little miniscule rivulet of emotion he meant to let trickle out past the floodgates, a torrent rushes out instead, crashing the barriers and forcing them wide.

“I think you… maybe, you could’ve had what you wanted.” Admitting it out loud is almost as painful as understanding what Cas’s admission really meant.

“Jesus, Cas. I got too many years of baggage, too many hang-ups… too much of my dad. I dunno, man. I dunno if we’d have ever got there?” He shrugs, helpless. “Maybe if we could’ve stopped running, coulda stopped fighting, could’ve stopped hating each other every other day. Could’ve waited until the world… the universe was ready to cooperate and maybe give us a break. But you know… Winchesters. Probably never would’ve happened.” His mouth twists, bitter and rueful.

“Still, man,” he goes on, confessing to no one. “I think you could’ve had it. And I could’ve too.”

Fuck.

His eyes are dry, gritty… aflame with that aching pressure that’s making his head throb.

“Dammit, Cas.”

“Dammit. I will always, always love you.” It’s a whisper, a breath. It doesn’t even carry far enough into the room to echo off the stone floor or the shelves or the shattered remnants of a door. But it reverberates around him nonetheless, ringing in his ears, pulsing through his veins with every heartbeat.

And keeps echoing over and over. So, he builds up the walls again, blocks it out, subsumes it beneath bitterness and betrayal and heartache. He shunts it away to that place within that will never, ever be cracked open again. He knows that, now.

Dean tries to stand, his knees ache and creak and pop, and there’s a pang in his chest that’s just as likely from Billy’s invisible hand squeezing, as it is his broken heart.

He disconnects from those things as well, and slumps back down to the floor, ignoring the spike of pain that jolts each nerve as he collapses like a boneless, lifeless thing.

There are another six missed calls on his phone, and he’s got texts and voicemails from both Sam and Jack, and when he’s finally got his thumb hovering over the call button, he hears noise outside the room.

His name being called and echoing through the halls of the bunker.

“Dean!”

It’s Sam.

“Dean, are you here?” And Jack.

No one else.

They rush into the room, where he’s still slumped down against the wall and Sam scrambles to a stop, feet slipping, and Jack nearly collides with him, and it might’ve been funny if anything could ever be funny again.

“Dean” Sam says in the way that makes his name an entire sentence.

Dean looks up, and see’s Sam’s mouth fall open. Sees Jack reel back from the bleak, horrible mask of his expression.

“He’s gone, Sammy. Cas is…” but he can’t finish.

“What do you –” Sam is about to ask, but something on Dean’s face must fill in the blanks for him.

“How? Was it Billy?”

He jerks his head in an abrupt negative. “No. Not quite.” He swallows, tries to steel himself for the telling of it. “She… she got her scythe back. She’s dying. Didn’t have a lot of time left. But before she went, she wanted one last thing; to take me out. Ca… he… We couldn’t stop her. We didn’t know how. There was only one thing that could’ve gone up against her–”

“The Empty,” Jack interrupts, looking both knowing and bereft at the same time.

Sam glances between them, confused.

Dean can’t bring himself to voice it, but Jack can.

“When I was gone,” Jack begins, tone gentle and flat. “After I died, Cas came to heaven to get me. The Empty was there, and she caught me, and she wasn’t going to let me go. So, Cas made a deal. His life for mine. And she accepted his bargain, but didn’t take him right then. She wanted him to suffer, so she said that if the moment ever came that Cas ever experienced true happiness, that’s when she would come for him.”

Sam’s gaze flicks back to Dean, still al little puzzled, but he knows better than to ask Dean to fill in all the blanks.

Dean nods, just a fraction, barely a dip of his chin. “Empty stopped Death, but…”

“Took Cas,” Sam concludes.

Dean blinks. It’s about as much of an agreement as he can muster.

“I’m sorry,” Sam says, and he sounds like he means it and knows what it means. Dean knows he does. He’s experienced loss… maybe the same kind of loss... in the last dozen hours.

Except – and maybe it makes Dean an asshole – but he doesn’t think Sam is as broken from it, could ever be.

“Wasn’t Billy, by the way,” he goes on to say.

Sam’s mouth drops at the corners, confusion dragging them down.

“Popping people out of existence. It wasn’t Billy.”

“Chuck?” Sam asks.

Dean shrugs. “Yeah. Probably. I dunno.”

The way that Sam’s face changes, Dean suddenly knows there’s even more bad news… like he isn’t shouldering enough of it.

“It, uh… wasn’t just people from other worlds, or people who were brought back.”

He can read the extent of it on Sam’s face then; sees what he’d been blind too through the haze of his own grief.

“Who else?”

“Everyone,” Jack says.

And that just doesn’t make sense to Dean. “Everyone we know?” trying to scope it in his mind. Trying to think through the line up of all the people he cares about.

“No,” Sam, amends, shaking his head slow and deliberate. It looks like the heaviest thing in the world. “No, Dean. _Everyone_. We didn’t see another living being… they’re all gone. Vanished. It’s just us.”

Dean lets his head thunk back against the wall, closes his eyes. The kick of concrete against his skull makes his ears ring but it’s not enough to dull things. “So, now what?”

“I… I don’t know,” Sam admits sounding helpless and frustrated and defeated and like a little boy who just wants his big brother to make things right.

Jack is the one who says, “Maybe we need to find Chuck. Once and for all.”

“Yeah,” Dean rolls his head against the wall, letting it rock back again, using that bright, hot point of pain to bring him focus and clarity.

“Yeah,” he says again. “Yeah, kid. I guess that’s what we do.”

“How?” Sam asks the question for all of them; a challenge and plea all at once.

Dean shakes his head and hefts his weary shoulders. “I dunno, Sammy. I just know that Cas didn’t sacrifice himself for us–” and he amends because he _owes_ it to Cas, “He didn’t sacrifice himself for _me_ , for us to just give up. Roll over. Let this happen. He stopped Death from taking me, so I gotta stop the world from ending.”

Sam looks unconvinced, but being the awesome brother that he is he firms up his chin and presses his lips tight and gives a curt little nod.

Jack is looking between them, taking his cues from Sam and Dean both, and his nod is slower, more deliberate, but he gives it.

“Right, well… I suppose we should go figure out how to save the world.”


End file.
